


The Holmes Children and John Watson

by Bubblegumbisexual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Big Brother Mycroft, Childhood, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, Season/Series 04, Victor Trevor is actually John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:32:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10104938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bubblegumbisexual/pseuds/Bubblegumbisexual
Summary: How Sherlock Holmes becomes best friends with John Watson. How Eurus takes John Watson from Sherlock Holmes. How Sherlock Holmes finds John Watson again. For everyone who thinks Victor Trevor is a John Watson Mirror. Told mostly from Mycroft's POV.





	1. Chapter 1

There were originally four Holmes children, though they only shared the ancestral home in Sussex for a short time before their numbers began to dwindle. There was the oldest, Sherrinford, who was four years older than Mycroft, and who left home at sixteen and never returned. At first, he wrote a bit to Mycroft. The letters contained information about Harvard, the university in America that Sherrinford had shipped himself off to. Soon, the letters stopped coming.   
This left Mycroft the oldest at only six. Sherrinford had never spent much time with the rest of the family. He had been close with Mycroft but had left a few months after Eurus was born. Because of this, Mycroft suffered the most. His parents were far too happy seeing their son ride away into the sunset, while Mycroft was left with a baby and two moronic adults. No one would even play deductions with him.   
Eurus was odd, Mycroft decided. She was full of wonder, but the ways in which this intellectual curiosity manifested were worrying, to say the least. Mycroft had found a pile of dead mice under her window. When Daddy tried to talk to her about it, she responded that they were just experiments.   
“Sweetie,” Daddy had said (Mycroft knew because he was listening at the door). “You cannot experiment with living things.”  
“I know, Daddy,” Eurus had responded innocently, “That’s why they were dead.”  
Mycroft had stopped listening after that. The scarier occurrences often involved the youngest Holmes. Only a year younger than Eurus, she and Sherlock were nearly inseparable. Sherlock was an interesting child and had caught Mycroft’s attention from the start. At first, though, Mycroft had been worried. Sherlock wasn’t playing, or babbling, or even looking at him. When Mycroft voiced his concerns to Mummy, she had smiled at him.  
“Mummy, I think something is wrong with Sherlock.” Mycroft had said this in his most adult voice, trying to be serious and show how worried he was.   
“There is nothing wrong with Sherlock, dear,” Mummy had assured him. “His brain just works a bit different. He has autism.”   
Mycroft hadn’t known what autism was, so he had looked it up in the school library. It did seem to be the most logical conclusion. He still wasn’t sure what to do about Eurus, though.   
When Eurus was four, Mycroft had found her locked in her room with a screaming Sherlock. Sherlock did not cry often, and this was a shrieking wail. Mycroft yelled for his mother before deftly picking the lock to his sister’s room.   
When he entered, he found Sherlock, red face streaked with tears, in the middle of the floor, and Eurus sat beside him. Quickly, Mycroft snatched up his little brother, separating the two. Eurus had been smiling and giggling, but now she stopped and looked up at Mycroft.   
“Why have you taken him?” she demanded. “I like to make him laugh.” Mummy was at the door then.  
“Mycroft, what’s going on?” She seemed exasperated.   
“Eurus was hurting Sherlock,” Mycroft said, pointing to the little girl in her pretty dress sitting on the rug. Now Mummy looked confused.   
“Take your brother upstairs while I talk to Eurus,” she said, and Mycroft obeyed without hesitation. Sherlock’s screaming had subsided now, and Mycroft lead him into their shared bedroom. They didn’t really need to share a bedroom; the house had four. But no one really wanted to move any of Sherrinford’s things. Besides, they had placed Sherlock’s crib in the room, and as soon as the boy could crawl, he had just let himself into Mycroft’s room anyway.   
Mycroft placed his brother on the twin bed on the left side of the room. Mycroft’s bed. Sherlock was still using a toddler bed, which was against the wall on the other side of the room, though he rarely actually slept in it. Sherlock extended his arm to Mycroft. The pale chubby skin was littered with small “c” shaped cuts and freshly blooming bruises. Mycroft found the marks continued onto his brother’s stomach and back. Horrified, he held Sherlock as he waited to Mummy to come.   
Mummy entered their room to tell Mycroft that Eurus hadn’t meant to hurt Sherlock, that it had been a mistake, but the moment Mycroft showed her the bruises, the words died in her throat. Mummy helped Mycroft clean the cuts, and then she put the boys to bed. Mycroft didn’t bother trying to convince Sherlock to sleep in his own bed that night. Instead, he simply left the toddler in his own bed, close to the wall, so no one would be able to get to him without waking Mycroft first.   
The next day, Eurus did not come home with Sherlock after kindergarten. Mummy told Mycroft she was at the Psychologist. Mycroft hoped she would stay there.   
She didn’t. What was worse was Mycroft overheard Mummy and Daddy talking that night.  
“The doctor says there’s nothing wrong with her,” Mummy was saying.  
“Violet, how can that be true? She’s been displaying warning signs for a while now.” Mummy shook her head.  
“The doctor says we aren’t giving her enough attention. These are just games so we’ll spend time with her.”  
After that, Mummy and Daddy started spending lots of time with Eurus. Which was fine as it left Sherlock and Mycroft alone. The two played pirates and ate cake and this time Sherlock was actually laughing instead of screaming. Sherlock began to talk about a boy he met at school. A boy named John Watson. Sherlock had never talked about anyone before, and Mycroft, now twelve, was determined to meet Sherlock’s new friend. He talked Sherlock into inviting the boy over, and soon, John Watson was spending all of his free time at the Holmes’ Estate.   
John also loved playing pirates, though he wasn’t a fan of cake. Mycroft figured he was okay. Especially now that Mycroft’s classes were requiring more of his time, and John Watson was able to entertain his brother long enough for Mycroft to finish his homework.   
This all ended when Mycroft went outside to call the boys in for dinner and found only Sherlock and Eurus in the yard. First, Eurus was not supposed to be home. Second, she was not allowed to be around Sherlock, whom she was currently standing a mere foot from. Third, John Watson was missing. Mycroft quickly created this mental list.  
“Sherlock, where is John?” He asked. Sherlock looked quite worried, but just shrugged a bit and looked at Eurus. “Eurus, where is John?” There was a bit of an edge to Mycroft’s voice. Something was wrong. Eurus Smiled.  
“He’s gone away,” she said cheerfully. Mycroft ushered the children inside and then carried Sherlock into the kitchen where their mother was.   
“Mummy, John Watson is missing,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. Mummy stopped what she was doing and turned around.  
“Missing? Has he just gone home, perhaps?” Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who shook his head.  
“Eurus took him,” Sherlock said.  
“Took him?” Mummy asked. Sherlock nodded. “Where?”  
“Into the woods,” Sherlock said. “She was singing, and he followed her. I told him not to.” Sherlock was looking pouty. Mummy looked nervously at Mycroft and then left to question Eurus. When she came back into the kitchen, she quickly called Daddy, who convinced her to call the police.   
Everyone was questioned when the police arrived. Then a search party was put together. Eurus was taken away for observation, but before that, she was singing. As the days progressed, it seemed less likely they were going to find John Watson. Sherlock became very upset. He wasn’t the only one. John’s parents came to the home and had a fight with Mummy and Daddy. When they left, everything was very quiet. The policemen stopped telling Mummy and Daddy things, and a few weeks later, Eurus came home.   
She didn’t stay long. Soon after returning, she set the house up in smoke. Thankfully, everyone survived. Eurus was taken away again. This time, she didn’t come back. The remaining Holmes family moved closer to London. Things appeared to return to normal. Mycroft left for University. Sherlock went to high school.   
Though, being in the building and actually going to class were two different things. Usually one would find Sherlock in the boys’ bathroom smoking. If not there, then stealing from the science labs or hiding in the band closet. He never went to gym, refused to attend maths except to turn in his work, left the English teacher long impeccable essays about why her class was terribly taught and uninspiring, set things on fire in the science lab as he pocketed materials, and never ever ate in the lunchroom, preferring to sneak out the side door and walk to the park.   
Mummy complained about all this to Mycroft and accused him of supplying his little brother with cigarettes.   
“Mummy, I would never give Sherlock anything that could hurt him. Besides, you know I don’t leave the city.” Except once a week to have lunch with Sherlock. But Mummy didn’t need to know about that.   
Normally during their lunches, Sherlock was mostly quiet, listening to Mycroft drone on about the new levels of security he now had access to. Mycroft never asked about school. He knew Sherlock hated it from the little he had mentioned of it, and that he skipped class and lunch, not only because they were boring, but because being alone in a high school cafeteria is the equivalent of being a single minnow in shark infested waters and that being the smartest kid in the classroom meant the sharks would torture you until you did whatever they wanted. In this case, their homework. So instead, Sherlock avoided the whole ordeal as much as possible.   
One day, however, Sherlock said something peculiar.   
“John Watson is not dead, brother mine.” He said it conversationally, as though he was talking about what he had packed for lunch that day.  
“I’m sorry?” Mycroft had been stunned; they hadn’t talked about John Watson for years.   
“John Watson is not dead. He is, in fact, my lab partner.” Sherlock was studying the brown paper bag in his hands when Mycroft looked over at him.  
“Sherlock, how can you be sure? John Watson is a fairly common name.”  
“His middle name is Hamish. He seemed rather surprised when I guessed it correctly.” Mycroft thought about it. It was improbable that there would be two John Hamish Watsons, though not impossible.   
“I’d like to meet him,” Mycroft said, mostly so he could prove that this John Watson was not the John Watson, but also because curiosity of getting the better of him. Sherlock agreed, and a week later, when Mummy and Daddy were away on a weekend holiday, John Watson came over to Sherlock’s house.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson doesn't remember being John Watson.

“Hello,” John said to Mycroft when Sherlock led him through the front door. Mycroft looked up from the sofa. The boy standing in front of him was short in stature, at least four inches shorter than Sherlock, and probably seven inches shorter than himself. The boy had blonde hair. John Watson had had blonde hair, though blonde hair is a fairly common trait in England. The boy had blue eyes, another trait he shared with John Watson. Mycroft surveyed the boy’s facial structure, hoping for a sign of difference, but after so many years, it was hard to tell what was due to growth and what was truly alien.   
“Hello John,” Mycroft said finally.   
“Oh, Sherlock’s told you about me?” John was smiling, swelling with pride at the thought that he had been a worthy topic of discussion between Sherlock and his brother.   
“A bit. Tell me, John, how did you escape that well all those years ago?” Mycroft’s mouth formed a hard line. Sherlock was standing silently behind John, waiting.  
“I’m sorry?” John’s smile faltered.   
“The well, when you were five, in the woods. The one Eurus led you to.” Mycroft pushed. John turned to look at Sherlock.   
“Sorry, uhm, if this is a joke, I don’t understand it. Does he do this to all your friends?” Sherlock’s brows furrowed for a moment; then, he shook his head.   
“Let’s go upstairs,” Sherlock suggested, moving toward the stairs. 

Mycroft waited until Sherlock made his way back down the stairs, alone, under the guise of getting food.   
“He doesn’t seem to remember being John Watson,” Mycroft commented, not looking up from his newspaper.  
“He doesn’t remember anything before the age of seven,” Sherlock said, pausing on the last step. Mycroft looked at Sherlock.   
“Nothing?” Sherlock shook his head.   
“Nope. Not Redbeard, not the well, not Eurus, not Sussex, not even me.” Sherlock walked across the room and threw himself into the chair opposite Mycroft. “His parents must have moved near London after the incident, hoping to keep him away from us. I can verify that later; surely public records will show what year they acquired the home.” Mycroft had moved over to his desk as Sherlock was speaking and now hummed as his fingers flitted over the keys of his laptop.   
“I can do one better, little brother. Hospital records.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, before moving to look over Mycroft’s shoulder.  
“Should you really be using government resources for personal gain?” Mycroft looked at him incredulously.   
“What do you think it means to be a politician, Sherlock?” He was smiling, though, sifting through the pages of information. Apparently, John Watson got hurt a lot.   
“There!” Sherlock said, tapping the screen. “There. ‘Extended stay in the hospital at five due to a broken collarbone, hypothermia, fever, bacterial infection, and concussion. Experienced short-term coma after admittance. Complete amnesia diagnosed after regaining consciousness.’”  
“Jesus,” Mycroft breathed. “What the hell did she do to him? She told us there was a well, but nothing...nothing else. She never told us where.”  
“I have to go back upstairs.” Sherlock straightened up. “Food. Mycroft, I need food or he’ll wonder what I’ve been doing.” Mycroft was still staring at the screen, skimming the rest of John’s medical record.   
“Uh, the kitchen, Sherlock. Crisps and biscuits or the like ought to do it.” Sherlock moved into the kitchen, going through the cabinets. He was sure he had seen junk food in the top left cabinet, where Mummy was too short to check it. Sherlock’s knee was precariously perched on the marble countertop when Mycroft called out to him.   
“Sherlock.” There was no answer as Sherlock reached toward his prize. “Sherlock!” Mycroft called impatiently.   
“Just ah, just a min-ah!” Crash. Mycroft dashed into the kitchen to find the mess of limbs that was his brother sprawled across the floor. “There, are you happy now? Couldn’t wait a damn minute,” Sherlock complained, sitting grimly on the floor. Mycroft was staring at him.   
“Sherlock, your wrist.”  
“What?” Sherlock looked at his wrist. It seemed alright.   
“The other one. It’s, well, I think the angle is a bit wrong.” Mycroft was focused intently on the way Sherlock’s wrist was bent acutely back. Sherlock picked his other hand up, looked at it, looked at Mycroft, and promptly fainted. 

“Sherlock?” John called over the banister. “Is everything okay? I heard a loud noise.”   
“John,” Mycroft said calmly, though he had not moved from where he stood in the kitchen, his feet rooted in place. “Would you mind calling for an ambulance? I believe one might be in order.”   
“An ambul-What?” Thudding on the stairs. John was in the kitchen doorway then. “God! What have you done to him?” He hurried over to an unconscious Sherlock. “Mycroft! What happened?”   
“He fell.” Mycroft swallowed.   
“He...Right, nevermind. Have you got a first aid kit?” Mycroft nodded and left the room. John peered into Sherlock’s eyes, carefully lifting his eyelids.   
“Here.” Mycroft handed over the kit Mummy had insisted on having. Mycroft hadn’t thought it was necessary. Sure, Sherlock sometimes came home with scrapes or bruises, but nothing a bag of frozen peas or plaster couldn’t fix. “Watch his wrist,” Mycroft snapped as John kneeled beside Sherlock.   
“What’s wrong with his wrist?” John lifted his friend’s arm and paled. He took a deep breath. “This is going to need reset. How far are we from a hospital?” Mycroft was staring at his phone.   
“A car will be here in three minutes. The hospital is a half hour drive.”  
“Right. Well,” John entwined his fingers with Sherlock’s, pressing their palms together. His other hand created a vice around Sherlock’s forearm. After a fast jerk, twist, and pop, Sherlock bolted up, gasping for air, eyes wide. John was wrapping a hard, straight, piece of plastic to Sherlock's wrist, relieved that the bone had popped back into the socket so easily. Sherlock yanked his arm away, cradling it to his chest.   
“Hey, it’s okay,” John said, looking at Sherlock. “Mycroft’s got a car coming. We’re going to take you to the hospital.” Sherlock immediately started shaking his head.  
“I don’t need a hospital. Look, you’ve fixed it.” Sherlock thrust his arm at John, then winced as he made contact with John’s shoulder.   
“You could have a concussion. You fell.”  
“I know I fell. It was Mycroft’s fault.” Sherlock scowled. The biscuits glowered down from the top shelf where the door hung open. There was a buzz from Mycroft’s phone.   
“The car is here.” Sherlock attempted to stand. John took his good arm, pulling him up, and holding him secure as they walked to the door. “My leg isn’t broken; I can walk on my own,” Sherlock said, brusquely.   
“You just passed out. Your sugar is probably low. It’s probably why you fell in the first place. When was the last time you ate?” Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he fidgeted in John’s grip. Finally, the three were crunched into the back of the black sedan that was sitting outside.   
“Rank not high enough to get a decent sized car?” Sherlock quipped at his brother, who was sitting motionlessly, umbrella against his knee, as he stared out the window. Sherlock huffed. “I hate hospitals. They’re so boring.”


End file.
